His hands were wrapped in dirty strands of cloth and dried blood. His hands had sustained various injuries, from the knuckles to the fingertips either chopped, burned, or scarred.
Each marking on his body told a story. Their eyes were piercing blue that even the strongest men alive felt spears of frost from just the pillager's glance.
The men were covered in snow, with beards homing small icicles. Their noses and cheeks were colored either red or black from the tundra's harshness as it enveloped their bodies.
Some were carrying food, including severed limbs, and one of them even lugged around a box with leather straps to secure it. Each step became heavier with their leather-skin boots, with matted fur on their legs and backs.
A step towards home, victory, and spoils of glory for their tribesmen. Trudging along the path where their leader went, every other hour, one of them fell from frost, mountain, or illness.
There was no way the thought of a human could survive these harsh elements that the Mother offered them—a cruel and ponderous view of contrast on for dealing with the outsiders. Sudden snaps and crunches were heard through the thick blizzard. Erratic rapid movements in the white veil caught the pillagers' attention.
"They came. We must keep going my brothers." whispered the leader.
Each one of them thought their comrades died from the illness, with the snow burying their bodies. But suddenly bodies hung in front of them by their chests with ropes, necks cut open, and the blood was slowly dripping down like an animal being ready for a butcher.
The remaining men were shocked, and the ropes behind them were looped around their necks, lifted quickly, vanishing in the snowy forest. Each man let out a small yelp after being pulled with such force that followed a crack.
Fear ran among them except for three pillagers. They kept their guards up, shadows were dashing through the woods, the crackling from the icicles falling from the low branches of the trees surrounding them closer.
As if they were playing with their prey. A sudden gust of snow brought a humanoid creature in front of them, adorning an ashen and burnt mask that resembled slaughtered animals.
They stared into the pillagers' eyes, their colors shifted from pure white to deep blue, reflecting their doom. These creatures lifted their spears with their wings sprouted from their back.
It eventually took the leader to realize that they were not of flesh. Because of the evidence, their cloaked backs and broad frames were the color of deep ice.
The leader's thoughts were racing when two of them were burdened by the force of being struck with their heads open by giant clubs. His right-hand man pissed himself into a heart attack and fell forward next to him.
Only he remained among the line of death and cold. Synapses were severed, pairing with the fear of loneliness was enough for him to break his stoic facade.
It forced a creepy toothy grin about his agreement with his fate. The crows took to the air at once, and flew back to the village, abandoning the leader of the pillagers.
He shouted with what was left of his energy when the spear struck him. Blood was spilling from his newly made orifices. Steam came when it was exposed to the frigid air.
The spear ripped into the pillager leader's stomach and vital organs in delight. Ultimately, the heart was carved out of his chest cavity.
He saw it beating in its hand, witnessing the creature squeezing it, and feasting upon the leader's wheezing body. The breathing stopped abruptly, and the creatures danced on the corpses of their latest victims.
'Damn Tschäggättä! Damn you all! I hope the winter will never beseech you of your doing!' thought the Pillager Leader.
Only the sound of the mocking crows was the last thing he heard as his eyes turned black, his skin turned cold, and his ears ceased hearing. Fate was cruel to the man who committed, but the soul was still intact with the body.
The masked creatures gathered around his corpse while one of them took out a small bag. Bursts of excitement came from the other creatures. They placed a bit of snow on its pinky and presented it to the last warm cadaver.
Out came a powder of pink and they put it up deep into the corpse's nose. The crows were flying for their lives, gathering every ounce of their strength to escape from the monsters that took out their master.
Both had to abandon themselves to ensure their safety. Thunder, sleet, and gales were the many natural disasters. That meant an omen from the gods, to slay these 'messengers'.
Knowledge had always been worth more than its weight in gold. White-eyed would shed tears during the first couple of centuries, recalling the memories of who she was before becoming as heartless as her brother.
But sadly, today was one of those times. She could only move forward to ensure the safety of her next master and herself.
~~~~~~
The red-eyed crow looked down to see if they were being tracked in the air and saw a branch from a tree. He nodded to his sibling, who descended downwards to perch on the branch.
They both cuddled each other for warmth. The night was cruel to those unshielded from the storms as it traversed towards the village, where Cloette was seen helping Hana close the windows and assisting Odin with carrying the dishes.
Hana had on a dirty apron, with her braided hair and beard into a single large braid with multiple overlapping strands. To keep it off the pot when she's cooking for the next meal on the menu for the night.
Annette came over excitedly from the recent discovery of such a creature brought to their doorsteps. Since everyone else helped with the inn, she has been putting the stag under observation.
Writing notes, experimenting with spells on how the healing could have happened, and the method of hunting used on the creature itself. The entire group worked as a unit, from setting tables to preparing the menu and cleaning the kitchen.